


Hold Her and Kiss Her

by sahbeL



Series: The Coffee Fix Series [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Coffee Shops, Derek Has Feelings, Derek-centric, Drunk Derek, Drunk Derek Hale, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, POV Derek, POV Derek Hale, Romance, Teen Wolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6809230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahbeL/pseuds/sahbeL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re so responsible,” she slurs in amusement, puff of her breath ghosting across the back of his neck. </p>
<p>“Huh?” he responds, not sure if he’d missed a part of the conversation or if she’s been conversing with herself in silence.</p>
<p>“I can’t believe we’re this drunk and we’re not even making out,” she whines.</p>
<p>Or:</p>
<p>The one where Derek and Leslie get drunk one night and drunk angst talk ensues before fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Her and Kiss Her

**Author's Note:**

> So, I don't even know if anyone still follows this anymore, haha. But I wrote it all out, so I should just post it anyway, right? Derek just deserves a girl that isn't crazy, okay? 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own anything except the OFC and all mistakes are my own.

It’s 2AM in the morning and the moon is gleaming brightly through her living room window. There’s a cool breeze making her curtains float slightly and both of them are so _wasted._  
  
It hadn’t been his idea to start downing shots of bourbon at 11PM the night before, but it’s her _first night off in weeks and getting drunk isn’t exactly allowed while working the podium, y’know?_  
  
He’s sitting on the floor of her living room staring at the booted foot of his outstretched leg with his back leaning lazily against the front of the couch. She’s stretched out on her stomach on the couch behind him humming quietly as she cards her slim fingers through his hair.  
  
He knows he’s had a lot more to drink than she has, but with his metabolism they’re pretty much the same level of wasted as each other. With two shots to her every one, they’ve ended up at that point of sleepy-lazy-careless kind of wasted and thankfully not the I-can’t-walk-I-will-throw-up-on-you wasted.   
  
“We’re so responsible,” she slurs in amusement, puff of her breath ghosting across the back of his neck.  
  
“Huh?” he responds, not sure if he’d missed a part of the conversation or if she’s been conversing with herself in silence.  
  
“I can’t believe we’re _this_ drunk and we’re not even making out,” she whines.  
  
He should learn to stop being surprised at all the things she’s not afraid to blurt out. They’ve been in each other’s company for roughly seven months now. Not that he’s counting or anything.  
  
He murmurs a noncommittal sound, not unlike a small amused laugh, and feels his breath hitch a bit when her fingers stop carding through his hair and small arms slide over his shoulders and hang loosely around his neck.  
  
She’s never really pushed for more than cuddles and chaste kisses before and neither has he, being content with their slowly moving not-quite-relationship-sort-of-dating cloud, but it’s not like either of them were immune to the pull they felt towards each other. They’ve both just been enjoying the attraction and savouring every single moment. He would probably never get the chance to admit it out loud, but Leslie is, and always will be, the first girl to ever just _let him_ feel the tingles and the butterflies. He’d never had the feeling of demand from her, of agenda. Theirs was a very gentle and innocent thing. Of pushing but not too hard, and pulling but not too much. 

His heart’s about to beat its way out of his chest and he’s thinking about how much he’s about to ruin things if he threw her arms off of him right that second, when she suddenly exhales a huge sigh against the nape of his neck and his skin erupts into the most giggle-inducing goose bumps. _Giggle-inducing? Jesus Christ._  
  
The tension leaves his body in a second and he scrunches his shoulders up to his ears trying to dislodge her mouth from that spot at the base of his neck.  
  
“I will head butt you in the face, Les!” he threatens non-threateningly.  
  
Her body is trembling with suppressed laughter, her arms still hanging loosely over his shoulders.     
  
“Grumpy!” she slurs, still that little bit tipsy. “Thought you were gonna crawl right out of your skin there for a second.”  
  
He rolls his eyes, almost forgetting how well she can read him, despite the fact that he knows that under the little giggles she wasn’t entirely unaware that he’d pushed her away. Again.  
  
Leslie sighs again and without seeing the look on her face he thinks it’s with resignation. He feels her wriggle a little and shift her position on the couch, and he’s about to turn around and see what she’s up to when she slides her left arm over his shoulder a little more so he can see the lines of her compass tattoo and the familiar silhouettes of birds.  
  
Her other arm reaches across him until her fingers are tracing her tattoos. She presses a finger to the first bird just on the lower inside of her upper arm.  
  
“This is my dad,” she murmurs. The blurriness has faded a little from her voice and he smells her sobriety creeping up on her. “He was a vet. The best in town.”

_Was._

Her fingers move up a little to the next bird inked on the inside of her upper arm.  
  
“This is my mom,” her fingers stroke over the silhouette a few times, caressing.  
  
“She was an artist.”

Derek hears the smile in her voice and pictures a young Leslie playing in the front yard of a house he’s never seen, with a small easel set up in front of her and water colours.  
  
Her arm shifts higher to touch the smallest of the silhouettes, and the way her arm shifts tighter is an almost sure fire position to break his neck, but defence is the last thing on Derek’s mind as he hears the quiver in her voice.  
  
“And this…” he feels her arms tremble a little and Derek frowns in sympathy, holding very still as he keeps his eyes on her tattoos and the finger lovingly stroking the smallest bird silhouette.  
  
“This is my brother,” she whispers. He smells the salt of her unshed tears but doesn’t move. “He was an architect. He liked shapes and lines. He liked to draw.”  
She pauses for a second and what she says next chases the rest of the alcohol out of his system and slams him right back to reality. “He was like you.”

Leslie shifts again, arms tightening around his neck but not choking. She buries her face into the back of his neck and this time it doesn’t tickle. He doesn’t feel tears but he smells them so strongly he has to stop himself from turning around and cradling her in his arms.  
  
“Wolves – they’re meant to protect, right? They’re meant to protect their pack,” she mumbles miserably.  
  
He nods once, doesn’t know the words to comfort her. He feels her shake her head restlessly against him.  
  
Her next three words are enough to break his stillness.  
  
“I was pack. _He died protecting me—”_     
  
He doesn’t need to know the rest of her story. Would do anything for her to stop rehashing everything at that moment just for him. There’s a hitch in his breath as a pain so sharp washes through him and in a quick but gentle movement, he shifts in her arms and pulls her down from the couch and into his lap. Quietly, he grips the arm with the tattoos in his big hand and lowers his head to brush his lips over each frozen silhouette.  
  
Leslie watches him with soft, sad eyes but there are no tears and he’s wondering how she’s able to maintain such quiet composure knowing the heartache behind her ink. They sit there for a while, him still brushing his lips gently over her skin and her leaning awkwardly against him. And then slowly she shifts so that she’s facing him, with legs encasing him in a straddle. It feels like the most natural thing in the world, and the expression on her face when he looks at her is sad and calm. Derek lifts a hand up to brush a lock of hair out of her face, keeps his hand cradling her head as her eyes shift down to look at her arm.  
  
“It doesn’t hurt as much as everyone leads you to believe. It’s not an excruciating, unbearable hurt.” Leslie strokes her fingers over the birds thoughtfully. “But when I was getting these done? I cried the whole time.”  
  
The clock shows that it’s just past 3AM. Derek’s forgotten the reason for his apprehension when her arms had first gone around him and now all he wants to do is give her comfort. When he moves his hand to cup her cheek and leans in to kiss her all on his own, it has nothing to do with wanting to get into her pants at all. Her eyes are only half open with unshed tears, but she breathes into his mouth and meets him halfway. He hears the escalation in both their heartbeats. Her mouth is soft and tastes like bourbon and strawberry lip gloss, but her energy is raw and open and all he wants to do is hold her, and kiss her, and hold her.  
  
When he pulls away, her hand is gripping the wrist he’s got closest to her face. Derek watches the tiny tip of her tongue dart out to moisten her lips, watches her bring her other hand up to his cheek and rub it down his 5 o’clock shadow.  
  
“Stay,” she murmurs. Her eyes run up and down his face, quietly studying him.  
  
And he can’t think of any reason to say no. Can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. And he knows that even if she changed her mind and tried, that all he would do tonight is hold her, and kiss her, and hold her.    
  
-x-  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, I'd love to know what you guys think. Feedback fuels the words and I think Leslie is as special to me as she is becoming to Derek.


End file.
